


19 and 29

by angelheadedhipster



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 IIHF World Hockey Championships, Age Difference, AgeDifferencesRUs, Drunk Sex, Dubious Math, I'm going straight to Hell, I'm so sorry, M/M, Multilingualism, Swemen, Team Sweden, over enthusiastic consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2018-11-04 17:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10995789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheadedhipster/pseuds/angelheadedhipster
Summary: “That was then!” Willy says. They’re still speaking English, and he can tell that their voices are getting louder, that whisper shout that happens in bars. “It’s been ten years. I’m not that young anymore.”





	1. Sweden v Denmark

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh look I mean...someone was gonna do this, and I guess that someone is me. I'm so sorry. 
> 
> Thank you to my various friendly betas! 
> 
> Unless otherwise specified, assume the dialogue is in Swedish. And I know very little about like, housing and structure at Worlds, or also Swedish, so if I've gotten something wrong, please let me know!
> 
> This story could probably also be summarized as "I just want Nicklas Backstrom to take care of himself and be ok."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicklas Backstrom gets to Worlds and sees some old friends.

Nicky sleeps like the dead on the plane, which is shocking, honestly. He feels like he hasn't slept in at least three weeks, not since the playoffs started. And definitely not on the flights to and from Toronto and Pittsburgh.

But the second the jet takes off from Dulles, he can feel a weight lifting off him. Or maybe he feels like he’s escaping. It’s like the plane is moving gently through spiderwebs, leaving all those cloying knots behind him.

He wakes up in Dusseldorf, and he feels good, and he just wants to play hockey. By the time they’ve got him all his gear - the blue and yellow looks like spring, like a fresh start - and figured out all the insurance bullshit, it's early afternoon. His entire body is exhausted, he’s sure, but he’s buzzing, and he just wants to be on the ice. Just wants to feel the puck connect with his stick and know where it will go.

He walks into the locker room and it's like sinking into a warm bath, the buzz of familiar vowels and fluted consonants washing over him. He’s grinning like a moron now, he knows it, and then Henrik comes over and he’s just so happy to be here.

“Hell of a fucking playoffs,” Henrik says, in Swedish, and Nicky hugs him as hard as he can. He feels a bit more of the weight of the last series, the last game, melt off him. It’s fine. They’re going to be fine. Fuck the NHL.

“Fuck the NHL,” he says. “We’re not talking about it, ever,” and Henrik laughs.

“Never ever.”

They’re both grinning at each other like idiots, and then the rest of the team is bounding over, and Nicky’s caught up in hugs and chats and chirps, and his tongue feels slower than usual to form itself into Swedish words but it feels great, like coming home. He’s drowning in yellow, cheerful silly Swedish colors. There’s no red anywhere in the whole damn locker room, and Nicky is so thankful.

“Are you coming on to the ice or are you just going to stand here accepting hugs all afternoon?” Landeskog says. “We have been waiting.”

Henrik snaps his mask down and walks out of the tunnel. “Let’s show those fuckers some real hockey,” he says, and Nicky follows him. He’s still grinning.

Willy’s already on the ice when they get out there, doing one-timer drills with Lindberg. Nicky has a flash of him in a driveway in Maryland, and then its as if layers of memories are hitting him all at once, collapsing on top of each other. Willy at his dad’s house, Willy playing in bantam games that Nicky went to when he could, Modo games that Nicky watched online on shitty streams, Willy deking around him in Toronto, fast as anything and silky smooth. It makes him stumble on the ice for a moment, all those images hitting all at once, echoing and reflecting off each other.

Willy shoots again, a gorgeous rocket that hits top shelf right over air, and then turns around.

“NIICKKYYYY!!!” he yells, and comes careening into him, zooming across the ice and slamming him into the boards.

“Hi,” says Nicky, and he’s grinning again. Willy is hugging him tight around the shoulders, more intense than a hug on the ice usually is, his hands digging into the pads around his shoulderblades. Nicky can feel it through the layers.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Willy says, pulling back and looking at his face. Willy looks so open, and he’s grinning, mouth wide and teeth showing.

“Me too,” Nicky says, and it's true, but he also feels helpless in the face of all that enthusiasm. Willy’s not wearing a helmet and his hair is sweaty, plastered to his forehead in a perfect swoop.

Bendelin says something, and Willy pulls off him, drifting backwards and tugging vaguely at Nicky. He’s smiling, still, and Nicky is so happy to see him.

Practice feels good, like he’s shaking out some of the cramps and tension that were present this whole season in DC. It is nice to skate and not having it mean anything but good hockey. It’s nice to hear Swedish yelled at him through the crisp air. It’s nice.

Playing with Willy feels like sinking into something both familiar and energizing. It’s like when he goes for a run in his neighborhood in Virginia, that moment when he turns the corner onto his own street, sees the familiarity of his own driveway. It’s the feeling of speeding up, exhaustion present in his body, running faster even though his muscles are tired and his chest is raw. It's speeding to towards something familiar and happy, the place he most wants to be. To get home.

Willy catches his pass like his stick is magnetized, and tips it past Lundqvist. He laughs, bright and loud, and somehow his laugh sounds Swedish in a way Nicky can’t define at all.

He skates past Willy, fast, swats him with his stick. He listens to Bendellin’s explanation of plays, he analyzes their defensive lines. He thinks about Denmark’s team, Switzerland’s. If he thinks beyond that, beyond the tournament, at all, the bottom drops out of his stomach. If he thinks about his team, if he thinks about his future, and Ovie, and the Capitals, it feels like the walls are closing in and all he can see is a dark tunnel forward.

So he doesn’t think about it. He focuses on getting the puck to his linemates, he focuses on the brightness of Willy’s smile when his shot goes in the goal. Nicky feels the burn in his calves, and he carefully does not feel anything else.

They’re stripping off pads in the locker room and Willy runs over, in his sliders and underarmour, flushed and sweaty.

“Nicky!!” he says, and Nicky likes the way he sounds when he says it.

Willy jumps onto him, a leaping hug that forces Nicky, standing, to catch him, his hands around his hips. Willy laughs and buries his face in Nicky’s neck, giggling.

“Hi, Willy,” Nicky says, and he’s laughing too, it's infectious. They hold on to each other, eventually starting to rock back and forth once the hug has gone on too long and they have to do something other than cling to each other.

Nicky pulls back, and Willy’s face is right there, his eyes so bright. He actually glows, everything about him. His hair is so blond and shiny, he oozes health and youth and excitement. He looks so young, golden.

Nicky doesn’t feel old, exactly. He just feels...older. Older than he was. Older than Willy is.

“It’s awesome to see you again,” Willy says. His accent is ever so slightly American, if Nicky really listens. His hands are still on Nicky, around his shoulders, drifting lower.

“You, too, kiddo,” Nicky says.

Willy rolls his eyes at the diminutive. “Last time was center ice, in Toronto-”

“We’re not talking about playoffs,” Nicky interrupts. The handshake line in Toronto was actually a nice memory, shaking Willy’s hand and feeling proud of him and his team to have made it this far, and proud of Nicky’s own team for advancing. But no playoff talk was no playoff talk. Safer that way.

“Ok, ok, sorry, old man,” Willy says, and he’s smiling again, this time a bit smaller. It looks like he’s worried, worried about Nicky, and that is the last thing Nicky wants. He flew across an ocean to get away from people who are worried about him.

“This old man who used to hammer shots past you,” he says, deflecting. “And I still can. Watch out.”

Willy laughs, and his hands are still moving lower down Nicky’s sides, brushing past his hips now. They are lingering touches, not the kind of hugs Nicky is used to getting in locker rooms. Willy’s hands are warm against him, and his underarmour is sticking to his hips. They are pressed together, hips flush and shoulders touching, until Nicky untangles them and finishes taking his gear off. Willy skips back to his stall, glancing over his shoulder.

 

After practice is lunch, or something. Nicky has no idea what time it is at this point, and he’s giving up trying, happy to go where people point him. He’s gotten used to doing that over the years.

He climbs over the side of the chair to sit next to Willy, and bops him him lightly on the head as he sits down. Willy grins at him, as usual, his mouth half open around a mush of potatoes. Willy is glowing, even now.

“Shut your mouth, child, that's disgusting,” Nicky says, settling in with his own food.

“Ew, you sound like dad,” Willy says, but he closes his mouth, and chews, so that’s something.

Nicky puts on as serious a face as he can muster and says “Eyes up, eyes up!” in English, trying to mimic Michael’s inflection from years of Kettler practices.

Willy laughs, again. “My eyes are always up,” he says.

“I know,” says Nicky. “Mine, too. I guess it worked.”

Willy nods, takes a bite of his food, and then says, “Yeah, but the thing about the Danes is…” and they’re off, talking about hockey, about Ehlers’ playmaking. It’s so familiar Nicky feels like he could drown in it. The two of them have been talking about hockey over meals like this for years now. A decade. The opposing teams have changed, from 10 year olds in the suburbs to stacked international teams, but the rhythm is the same, the ebb and flow. Willy has good hockey sense, he always has. Nicky hasn’t watched much of Worlds, he was kind of busy, and it's useful to hear Willy’s perspective.

He laughs, suddenly, under his breath.

“What?” says Willy. “Dahm is fast, he doesn't look it, but his positioning -

“I believe you,” Nicky says. “It’s … you’re good at this. It’s kind of funny, that’s all. How many times we’ve had this kind of conversation.’ 

Willy smiles, not his usual wide grin, something smaller and more personal. “Yeah, man, I get it. I’ll call Alex and facetime him in, he can talk to us about offensive zone coverage.”

Nicky laughs again, quietly, and turns back to his food. It feels so easy to be here, to relax into the slanted vowels of Swedish, into passing drills and shitty food, into tic tac toe passes with a Nylander.

Willy is looking at him, not eating. Nicky can see him out of the corner of his eye.

“You know,” Willy says, in English now. “I totally had a crush on you when you lived with us.”

Nicky’s head shoots up, and his fork is still in his hand as he gestures at Willy, responding in English. “You were like, 10!”

“I know, I know, but…” Willy is biting his lip now, and his cheeks are full and smooth, the angle of his jaw shifting as his lips move.

“You were a literal child,” Nicky says.

Willy is looking at him intently now, his eyes a deep green. “I know,” he says. They are still speaking English.  “I mean. It hasn’t exactly gone away.” He ducks his head, biting into his lower lip again, soft and red around his teeth

Nicky isn’t sure what his face is doing in response. He imagines he’s blushing, and he is trying to formulate some sort of logical answer when he hears the scrape of the chair behind him. Relieved, Nicky turns around to see Klinger’s very white teeth bared in a grin, a bowl of potatoes in his own hand.  
  
“Nicky, I’m so glad to see you, man,” Klinger says, and the return to Swedish is stabilizing, somehow. “Listen, I was thinking about faceoffs, and I think if we start placing the second D in the deflection slot, we can do a sort of spin, sometimes?”

“What,” Nicky says, and hopes it comes out confused about spins, not rattled by totally inappropriate confessions from his linemate.

“See -” and Nicky lets more hockey wash over him, sparing him from answering Willy. Willy is still sitting next to him, and when Nicky risks a glance at him he’s still got his eyes on Nicky’s face, and his eyes are still a very, very deep green. They lock onto Nicky’s, and Willy smiles again, his lips curling into a smirk. It makes the dimples deepen on in his cheek. It’s incredibly attractive, Nicky realizes.

 _Fan_.

  

 

They win against Denmark. They win and it's glorious, and it’s so _easy_ . They win, Willy gets two gorgeous goals, one off of Nicky’s assist, and Nicky gets a goal, wins the game on the power play. It's so _fun._

He knows he must look like an idiot but he cannot stop grinning.

They go out drinking afterwards, some bar in Cologne that most of the teams have been hanging out at. Willy is grinning and stupid looking, too, radiating joy and an exuberance that should be exhausting but feels intoxicating to Nicky. He keeps looking over at Nicky, just like he did on the ice, every time he scored. As if he’s checking to make sure that Nicky is watching, that he sees.

Willy’s had at least four beers and one shot, and he’s sitting next to Nicky now, leaning into him slightly. He’s been sitting next to him all night, touching Nicky’s shoulder, hand grazing across his back when he walks behind him. He sat next to Nicky in the car on the way over, their thighs pressed together in the back seat, warm and shifting.

Willy is listing a bit, and his eyes are bright. His mouth is open, his teeth blindingly white. Hair keeps falling into his eyes, and he keeps running a hair through it and back. Nicky finds himself mirroring the gesture with his own hair.

Nicky is on his second beer, and he’ll still probably end up feeling more hungover in the morning than Willy does. Getting older is stupid.

Willy bumps his shoulder into him, sliding against the table in front of him. “Did you think?” he asks, English again. “About what I said?” His voice is lower, but the words aren’t slurred.

“What?” Nicky says, though he knows what. He’s stalling.

Willy looks him in the eye, and he’s glowing again. Like warmth is just pouring off him. Maybe it’s the alcohol.

“You know what,” Willy says, and gives Nicky the most deliberate once over he’s ever seen, his eyes skipping down to the floor and then dragging slowly all the way up Nicky’s body, aggressive and deliberate. “About how hot I think you are.”

“Willy-”

“And how much I want to suck your dick.”

“Willy! Ok, geez.” Nicky switches back to Swedish. “God. You’re like sixteen.”

“I’m twenty-one,” Willy says, in English.

“You’re a child!” Nicky responds. “I’m not doing this - I’ve known you since you were eleven. I shot ping pong balls at you when you were barely tall enough to stand in the goal. I _held_ your _hand_ when you learned to _ride a bike_.”

“That was then!” Willy says. They’re still speaking English, and he can tell that their voices are getting louder, that whisper-shout that happens in bars. “It’s been ten years. I’m not that young anymore.”

“Jesus, Willy-”

“What are you two Americans talking about?” Eriksson is looming over them, two beers in his hands, grinning.

“Nothing, nothing, at all,” Nicky says. Willy is looking at him intensely again, somewhat undercut by his swaying a bit on his stool. “Is one of those for me?”

They speak Swedish the rest of the night, chirping with their teammates. Willy sits next to him on the cab back to the hotel, and falls asleep on his shoulder.

“A child,” Nicky says, quietly, English, unsure if Willy’s awake enough to hear him.

“Am not,” Willy says, muffled, which doesn’t help his case at all.

Nicky sighs, and runs a hand through Willy’s hair as he burrows further into his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it is not incredibly obvious, I myself am currently 29. 
> 
> [Tumblr, if you want that!](http://neonapologist.tumblr.com/)


	2. Sweden v Slovakia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Members of Team Sweden do some math, among other conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this point this fic is just making its own decisions as I write it. I don't know
> 
> Thank you [make_em_scrum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/make_em_scrum/pseuds/make_em_scrum) and other betas, especially the one who caught the very stupid mistake ;) you know who you are (and what it was). If yall see any other errors PLEASE let me know

The next morning, Nicky wakes up when his alarm goes off, pulled out of a very vivid dream in which Justin William’s legs kept falling off at the knee as he skated, and Nicky tried to catch him as he fell lower and lower towards the ice.

Fuck the NHL.

Team Sweden doesn’t have a game that day, just practice. Nicky is bleary eyed and slow as he drags himself to breakfast, his body starting to catch up to the schedule he’s put it through over the last few days. Weeks. Months?

He enters the cafeteria and sits down next to a yellow shirt, not even looking to see who it is. Other teams are milling around, everyone fairly muted this early in the morning. There’s laughter coming from  German’s table as Nicky grabs as many eggs as he can fit onto his plate.

It turns out to be the other Klingberg that he’s sitting across from, and Nicky doesn’t quite have the energy for small talk at this hour. He says hi and concentrates on his eggs. When he looks over Carl is muttering to himself. He hears the Swedish words for “shot on goal” and not much else.

  
Nicky mostly zones out through breakfast, eating on autopilot like he’s used to. He happens to be facing the door when Willy comes in - he’s not looking for him, he’s not - and sees the kid roll in almost as breakfast is ending. Willy is wearing glasses, his hair falling into his eyes behind them, and his whole face looks mussed and slept in. He’s still glowing, though.

 _Jäklar_.

Willy doesn’t look over at Nicky as he gets food and punches Lindberg lightly in the shoulder. But suddenly he’s dropping into the chair on Nicky’s other side, as if Willy knew where he was all along without looking. Of course he does.

“Hey, sexy,” Willy says, his voice slightly rough, as if he hasn’t spoken much yet today.

So. That’s how this is going to be, then.

“How are you feeling this morning, kid?” Nicky asks.

“I'm great, grandpa, thanks for asking,” Willy says, and grins at him. There’s pieces of egg in his teeth. “How are you?”

“I was feeling great until some pipsqueak sat next to me and started chewing with his mouth open,” Nicky says, and flicks Willy on the ear.

Willy cackles, more hair falling into his eyes. He runs his fingers through it, mussing it further, and leans into Nicky, shoulders pressing together, before leaning away.

Nicky knows that things between them have changed, that there’s something new in their interactions. He knows he’s going to have to deal with Willy’s crush, at some point, make it go away. But for now it’s nice to sit here, to companionably be sleepy and quiet next to each other. He doesn’t really want to push him away, yet.

“Hey, did you realize that my number is your age?” Willy asks, breaking the silence. “I’m number 29, you’re 29 years old.” His voice is not as rough now, and Nicky realizes he misses it, the darkness in his tone, like Willy had been doing something terrible.

“That’s handy,” Nicky says. “And my number is so close to your age, too-”

“Yeah , I mean just two years-”

“If you just take the one off the front,” Nicky says, keeping his face deadpan.

Willy looks at him, his eyes squinting.

“I”m saying you are nine years old, Willy,” Nicky says, and Willy groans and rolls his eyes.

“That doesn’t even make any sense as a chirp,” Willy says. “Besides, I’m _twenty-one_ ,” he adds, looking intent. Nicky has heard him say that too many times already, and he only got here two days ago.

Nicky waves a hand. “Same thing.”

“It is n- ugh, forget it.” Willy chews his food contemplatively for a moment, and the silence is a relief. Other Klingberg gets up.

“So how old would be old enough, exactly?” Willy says conversationally in English, looking vaguely across the room. “For us to be fucking, I mean. Cuz I really want to.”

“Oh m-” Nicky snaps his mouth shut, and sighs. “You realize everyone here speaks English, too, right? You can’t just say those things.”

“No one’s listening,” Willy says, still in English. “It’s fine. So, how old?”

Nicky sighs, again. “I’m not having this conversation.”

“It’s only eight years. That’s not crazy.”

“Eight years is a lot of years.”

“It’s not - You know the half plus seven thing, right?”

They’re still speaking in English, and Nicky isn’t sure he’s heard right.

“No? Half-plus-seven? _Halvan och sju_?” Nicky says.

“Oh sure,” Willy says. Klingberg sits back down across from them, so Willy leans over and says in Swedish, “You know about half plus seven, Klinberg, right? The dating thing?”

Klingberg blinks at them for a moment.

Willy continues, prodding. “You know, that thing that tells you how young is too young to….date,” he trails off, smirking on the last word like that isn’t what he means at all.

“Oh!” Klingberg nods. “Sure. Right, you take your own age, and it tells you who is old enough. You just divide your age in half -”

“Right, and add seven,” Willy says. He looks over at Nicky. “See?”

“See what,” Nicky grumbles.

“So if you’re, what - how old are you, Backstrom?” Klingberg asks.

“Twenty-nine!” Willy supplies, helpfully.

“Right, so you just divide that in half - 14 and a half years old,” Klingberg is still talking, he sounds like he thinks he’s being helpful.

“Gee,” says Nicky, utterly without expression.

“And then add seven, so what does that make it?” Klingberg pauses, his face scrunched up.

“Twenty-one,” says Willy. His eyes are huge and very, very green again, and he’s looking very directly at Nicky.  
  
“Yeah that’s right,” Klingberg says. He smiles. “Well, technically twenty-one and a half.”

“I don’t think the half really matters,” says Willy quickly.

Klingberg shrugs. “Sure. So twenty-one and half, that’s like, the minimum. Anything older than that is fine.”

“Totally fine,” Willy says in English.

“Twenty-one and a half,” says Nicky. “That’s not really the same as 21, is it.”

“I mean you are not _exactly_ twenty-nine, either,” says Willy, looking away from him.

“That’s true - when’s your birthday, Backstrom?” Klingberg asks.

Nicky glares at both of them. “You are a bunch of sex mad perverts,” he says in Swedish.

Klingberg laughs. Willy shrugs. “Yep,” he says, and he licks his lips.

 

“Twenty-one is fine,” Willy says. They’re putting their gear on, and Nicky is taping his stick for practice. “More than fine.”

"You only turned twenty-one like a week ago,” Nicky says, not looking up.

"The birthday card was nice, thank you, did I say that?” Willy ducks his head and smiles, sweet and personal.

“You didn’t, but you’re welcome,” Nicky says, and looks over just enough to gently smile back.

“So we’re good to go,” Willy says, and drops his eyes to Nicky’s crotch. His eyelashes are very dark against his cheeks. Nicky rolls his eyes and drops his gaze to his stick again.

“I am pretty sure I could go to jail for sleeping with you,” Nicky grumbles.

“What - no! Twenty-one is legal, everywhere!”

“I cannot believe we are having this conversation,” Nicky mutters.

“Twenty-one is legal for everything, basically.” Willy is in his gear now, standing up and gesticulating at Nicky. “I can vote. I can join the army, in both countries. I can drink, even in America!”

“And I’m sure you didn’t until your birthday last week, either,” Nicky says. He’s done taping his stick now but he’s not sure he can look into Willy’s eyes at this moment. They’d be bright and shining, he’s sure, wide and expressive.

Willy rolls his eyes. “Come on.”

“I live in the capital of America, Willy,” Nicky says, standing up with his stick and enjoying his few inches over the other man. “I have to enforce the laws. I basically _am_ the government.”

Willy giggles. His teeth are very, very white, and he’s biting down on the inside of his lip. Nicky was right. His eyes are bright, green like an ocean, like something quick and shimmery swimming through deep currents. His lips are red, redder his teeth sink into them. He’s looking at Nicky now, head ever so slightly tilted, the line of his jaw clear where his helmet strap hits.

Nicky pushes at Willy’s helmet, not hard, just enough to sway him back. It’s all he can think to do, and he needs this moment to end before...before anything.

“Practice is now,” Nicky says.

“Ok, boss,” Willy says, and smirks at him. His arm brushes Nicky’s thigh as he walks past, and stays there, and Nicky feels like he can feel the heat through all his pads.

 

It’s a good practice. Nicky feels like he has extra energy, extra push, extra fire crackling through him, and he doesn’t think too much about why that might be.

It lasts through conditioning, through tape review and strategy. Nicky feels like he’s burning up a little, and he’s starving at dinner. He sits next to Henrik, and he makes sure there isn’t a free seat around him. He’s not avoiding Willy, he’s just...sitting with Henrik this time.

They talk about Slovakia for a bit, about the team and about Lundqvist’s perspective on their defense. Talking to goalies is always helpful, even if some of the way they see things is fucking weird.

“We’re going to be fine,” Henke says, and leans back. His eyes are ice blue, and he grins. “With you and Nylander on a line, playing like you do in practice, like you did last game? Who cares what their defense looks like.”

Nicky smiles, looks away for a minute. “Thanks, I guess.”

“It’s not a compliment, just the truth,” Henke says. “You two are...you know.” He’s got a big shit-eating grin on his handsome face.

Nicky nods. “It’s been so fun playing with him,” and focuses his thoughts on playing, just playing. “It feels so easy.”

“Yeah, it shows,” Henke says. “He’s different now that you’re here, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he’s...He’s more focused,” Henke says, his lips pursing. “Before he was great, don’t get me wrong, but he was a little wilder, more out of control. He was clearly having fun. I mean, so much fun. But now that you’re around it’s like…” He trails off.

Nicky waits. He probably shouldn’t like hearing that he has that much of an effect on Willy, but he does. He likes it.

“It’s like he wants to make sure you’re watching, you know? I think he probably wants to impress you,” Henke says, nodding his head.

“Huh,” Nicky says. There’s a warm glow spreading through him that he is trying to ignore. It’s just good hockey, he thinks to himself. He really likes Willy’s hockey, he thinks.

Henke grins. “Let’s kill Slovakia, ok?”

“Definitely.”

“I’m gonna picture every puck as Erik Karlsson’s stupid face,” Henke says, with relish.

 

They don’t quite kill Slovakia, but they win pretty easily. Henke is, as predicted, a menace in the net, everywhere all at once. Four minutes in, Willy scores, Nicky with the assist, and from that moment he knows they’re going to win. They do. It’s easy, it feels like walking on air.

There are hugs in the locker room, chirps and grins. But it feels like this win was expected, and they all know what they have to do, have to keep doing. Still, it feels good. Nicky stands tall and stretches his shoulders and feels yet more memories of the playoff ease out of him. It feels good to be here, right now.

“We’re good at this, you and me,” Nicky says to Willy, who’s next to him. Willy is always next to him,and Nicky is not looking at Willy in his underarmour, at the sweat sticking the lycra to his thighs. He’s not looking.

“Yeah, man,” Willy says. It’s English, so Nicky should have known what would come next, but it still catches him off guard when Willy looks up from where he’s seated, his mouth open and his hands on his knees, and says, “I bet you and me would be good at other things, too.”

“Oh my god,” Nicky says, and he hates how much he’s reacting but he can’t help it. “Stop.”

“It's not like I’ve never had sex before, ok?” Willy’s standing up now, pulling his hoodie on. “I’ve done a lot of shit, ok? Shit that you don’t know about.”

Nicky rolls his eyes. He’s been on a team with Alexander Ovechkin for ten years, and Tom Wilson for four. There was no possible way he will be impressed with sexual braggadocio.

“I’m just saying-” Willy is at eye level now; it keeps surprising Nicky that they are basically the same height. “You’re not going to like, corrupt me, or something.”

Oh, that’s...Nicky’s brain helpfully supplies many many images, all in a rush, of what corrupting William Nylander would be like. Miles of smooth white skin, dark red marks on his throat. Those big eyes. Willy’s probably never - he wouldn't know about - He’d look so good with his hands pinned above his head, he-

Nicky has an excellent poker face, he knows this, and he’s never been happier for it than right now. He keeps his eyes as blank as possible, doesn’t react to Willy at all.

But,  _jäklar, altså_. Willy’s been playing poker against Nicky for a decade, since they were all sitting around Michael’s living room, betting on peanuts. No one else would have noticed the tiny movements in Nicky’s expression, the thoughts he tried to clamp down on, but Willy does.

Willy doesn’t say anything, but he grins, wide and delighted, and that’s more than enough for Nicky to know he’s been caught.

 

They’re back at the hotel before Willy says anything, their strides almost matching as they move through the lobby.

“You didn’t say no, you know,” the younger man says, in English, and he’s looking over at Nicky when Nicky looks at him. His eyes are dancing, and he has a sly twist to his mouth.

“I what?” Nicky asks.

“You didn’t actually say you don’t want to,” Willy says. They’re waiting for the elevator, and Willy is standing ever so slightly too close. Not something anyone else would notice, but Nicky does. “When I hit on you - I mean, I’d stop if you said you really didn’t want to. But you don’t say that. You say I’m too young, and all that stuff, but…”

The elevator dings, and Nicky hasn’t come up with a response yet.

They get on, just the two of them. Nicky presses the button for the floor Team Sweden has taken over. They are standing next to each other, both facing the door.

Willy continues, as if he’d just been gathering his breath. “So if I wasn’t too young, you’d want to hook up with me, right? Because if you didn’t, you would have just said that. But you haven’t said that.”

Nicky is feeling a little light headed, a little trapped. The air in the elevator feels too close, too heavy.

“So I think you _do_ want to,” Willy says. They are one floor below their own, Nicky notices, staring at the numbers lighting up. “I think you want to kiss me, and I think you want my lips on your cock, and you want to -”

The elevator dings, and the doors open.

“There are people here, Willy,” Nicky says, and his voice sounds calmer than he would have expected. It’s missing some of the bite he intended, though.

Willy steps out of the elevator, turning around and cocking his head at Nicky when he doesn’t immediately follow.

Nicky shakes his head and starts walking out, walking towards his own room. Willy walks next to him, his mouth still curved in that damn smirk.

“People here, sure,” he says. “I think you want to see what I’ve learned, and I think you want to see how much I’ve _grown up_ since you knew me.”

“Ugh, don’t-” Nicky feels like he’s on firmer ground here, finally. “Don’t remind me that I knew you when you were 10, kiddo. You’re not helping your case.” They’re in front of Nicky’s room now, and Nicky hasn’t opened the door because Willy hasn’t shown any signs of leaving, he’s still standing right there when his room is further down the hall.

Willy pouts, and it breaks his expression a bit, the careful control that’s been in everything he says since they walked into the hotel, the heat that Nicky hasn’t been able to find a way through. “What _would_ help my case, then?” His lips look so pink, soft and plump.

“There’s no case,” Nicky says, and even as he says it he knows that this isn’t a “no” either. Willy is right. He hasn’t actually shut it down, he hasn’t stopped it at all.

He likes that Willy thinks he’s hot. He likes being flirted with, he likes the idea of possibility. He likes the tingle of Willy’s attention on him, even though he shouldn’t. He hasn’t said no because he doesn’t want to say no. It’s as simple as that.

“Can I come in?” Willy says, like that’s a totally reasonable request at this moment. His face is open and his eyes are very wide. Nicky notices that his left hand hand is toying with the sleeve of his hoodie, creasing and unfolding the hem.

“No,” Nicky says. That’s one ‘no’ he’s managed, thank god, and this one shouldn’t have been hard, but it was.

Willy really pouts now, and it makes him look that much younger. He’s barely out of being a teenager, Nicky reminds himself. This is trouble.

“Why not?” Willy says. “You’re not doing anything anyway. We can just...hang out.” The English words still sounds lascivious to Nicky, and he’s sure Willy means it that way.

“I have to…” Shit, what does Nicky have to do? Not be in a small room with a blazingly attractive twenty-one year old who is staring at him with hungry eyes and a mouth that practically looks like it’s drooling. “I have to call Ovie,” Nicky says, because, sure. “I told him I would.”

“Huh,” Willy says, but he doesn’t push. “Ok.” Willy shrugs, and Nicky knows he may have said no to this moment, but he hasn’t actually changed anything.

“See you at practice,” Willy says, and walks down the hall.

 

Once inside his room, Nicky feels both like he just ran three miles and also like he won a game in a shootout. He hasn’t said no, and he needs to say no. Willy’s not an asshole, he’ll stop if Nicky really tells him to stop. But Nicky doesn’t want him to stop, and he’s only making this worse on himself. The longer he lets it go, the harder it will be to stop. The more memories he’ll have of Willy, of the hunger in Willy’s eyes, the smirk on his lips, the way his weight shifts from foot to foot when he’s talking so intently, the intensity of his stare as he waits for Nicky’s reaction.

 _Not helping,_ Nicky thinks to himself.

Maybe he should call O. He didn’t make plans to or anything, but now that’s he’s thought of it - why not. They’ve been texting, a bit, since the tournament started, inane things about the Czech uniforms or seeing Dima across the dining hall looking dopey when he eats. But he could call O. He probably should.

He hasn’t been avoiding him, exactly. He just...there’s a lot he had to get away from, just for a little while, and nothing means the Capitals like Alexander Ovechkin.

But there’s much more to Ovie besides his team, and nobody knows that better than Nicky.

Ovie seems a bit surprised to see his Facetime call - they aren’t really call people, and he hadn’t planned it - but it’s nice to see him, to talk to him. They settle into rhythms built of ten years together, of knowing each other better than anyone.

They talk about O’s knee, about the rehab he’s doing for it. They talk about what is happening in the Western Conference finals, about the silliness of being at Worlds. They do not talk about the Penguins, or their series. Not yet. They don’t talk about the future.

“You look good, Nicky,” Ovie says. “Playing good hockey.”

“Yeah,” Nicky says, and he’s smiling. If Ovie thinks he’s playing well, then he is. “It’s a good team, better than I expected.”

Ovie nods. “That help. Nylander, though?” There’s a question and Nicky isn’t quite sure about what.

“He’s amazing,” Nicky says. “He’s so fast, and he just, he sees the angles when…” and he knows he’s babbling, gushing a little, but O appreciates good hockey.

Nicky trails off and sees that Ovie is watching him through the screen, mouth open in a small grin.

“So….Nylander, though.” There’s no mistaking the change in Ovie’s tone.

“What.”

Ovie just raises an eyebrow, and Nicky sighs, slumping in the uncomfortable hotel desk chair.

“He’s 21,” Nicky says. “He’s a child.”

“He 21,” Ovie says. “Legal.”

“Ugh, you would say that,” Nicky says. “I can’t do that. I can’t.”

“Who you trying to convince,” Ovie says, and he looks like he’s about to laugh.

“He’s been-he’s been throwing himself at me, for days, I,” Nicky knows he’s babbling a bit, but it feels good to say it out loud. “I really can’t. He’s very persistent.”

“Oh, no,” says Ovie, deadpan behind his smirk.

“He’s a kid!” Nicky is sort of surprised at how intense he’s being, but its Ovie. Ovie gets him. “I basically raised him.”

“Eight years,” Ovie says. “Is long time.”

Now Ovie is actually giggling, and Nicky feels like an idiot but also like it’s helpful to actually throw up his hands in frustration in a way he only lets himself do around Ovie. He sighs, and looks back at the screen.

“Are you going to?” Ovie asks, and Nicky doesn’t hear judgement in it, just fondness.

“I am not going to,” Nicky says. “I can’t. I can’t. It’s horrible.”

“He is very good looking,” Ovie says.

“HE IS,” Nicky groans. “And he’s not playing fair, at all. I am only human, I can’t resist this forever.”

Ovie is laughing, laughing out loud, not able to get words out through his grin.

“I’m so fucked,” Nicky says, and O laughs harder.

"Not yet, but probably," Ovie says, and he cracks up so much he can't speak anymore. His face is open and smiling, and the shadows around his eyes aren’t visible when he’s laughing this hard.

So that’s one good thing to come out of all this. One very good thing.


	3. Sweden v Switzerland - Quarterfinals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Sweden advances to the next level

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost two months since last chapter - goodness, this is embarrassing. I’m sorry! Thank you for sticking with me, and extra thank yous to the people who left me comments/asks reassuring me that I was making good choices with my life and that they’d be here to read it when I’m ready. You are better than I deserve. Anyway, here’s a chapter.

“How was Ovechkin?” Willy asks the next morning, leaning back in his chair at breakfast, the front legs in the air. 

“Good,” Nicky says, and sits across from him. They’re quiet for a moment, that version of companionable early morning silence that Nicky has shared with teammates on the road for 15 years, in a variety of countries.

“So, no game today,” Willy says, conversationally, still in Swedish. “What are we doing after practice? Fucking, maybe?” 

Nicky groans.

“What? You in?” Willy says, grinning at him, white teeth biting into red lips.    


“It’s too early for this,” Nicky says into his plate. 

“It’s never too early for  _ this _ ,” Willy says, and gestures vaguely down his chest, showily.

Nicky laughs, against his better judgement. “You know my answer already.”

Willy lets his chair fall back to the ground, and some of the air seems to go out of him. There’s no one sitting next to them today, just the two of them, Nicky’s elbows on the table, Willy’s eggshells all over his plate.

“What,” Willy says, “Ovie won’t let you?” It comes out petulant, almost teenage-sounding, though Nicky can tell he’s trying for mean, or cutting.

“You know it's not like that,” Nicky says. What he and Ovie have - had? Still have? - doesn’t affect anyone other than the two of them. Ovie doesn’t stop Nicky from doing anything. Even if sometimes Nicky wishes he would. 

Nicky does try to stop Ovie from doing things, but after ten years he’s learned that’s a fairly hopeless proposition. 

“I know a lot about Ovie and you,” Willy says, and he’s leering now, the corner of his mouth curved up in a smirk. 

Nicky doesn’t dignify that with a response, and tries not to focus on the dimples in Willy’s cheek, the soft indentations that he wants to lick - no he  _ doesn’t _ . 

“I’m getting more food,” Nicky says, and gets up. 

He comes back to find that Willy hasn’t moved. He has one hand around the styrofoam cup his coffee is in, long fingers, thick knuckles. 

Willy looks up when Nicky sits down. “What’s Ovie got that I don’t?” he asks, in Swedish.

Nicky levels him with a look. “Adulthood.” When Willy starts to respond, he continues. “A Hart trophy. Three, actually. Six Rocket Richard trophies, and-”

“Ok, that’s just mean,” Willy interrupts.

Nicky smiles, but says, “The ‘adulthood’ isn’t.”

Willy sighs, standing up and crumpling his cup in his hand. “Let’s go.”   
  
  


Conditioning is the same everywhere. Nicky has a note on his phone with his weight totals, to make sure he’s increasing the level of difficulty appropriately, and between that and the trainers and the terrible rap music playing off the iPhone of someone younger than him, he might as well be in Arlington. 

Arlington doesn't have Willy tho, Willy’s tongue sticking out of red lips as he sets up for a deadlift, his long fingers gripping the bar. Nicky looks straight into the mirror in front of him, much as he hates watching himself work out. It's better than watching Willy’s quads as he lifts, the definition as his muscles strain against his skin. Nicky turns slightly red in the mirror, he can watch it creep over his own skin. Ugh.

Somehow he and Willy end up running ladders next to each other, Willy faster but Nicky more controlled. They’re breathing hard, red and sweaty, and Nicky is wondering if there’s a twinge in his knee, when Willy says, breathing out on the Swedish vowels, “I feel like you think I’m kidding, or something. Like I don’t mean it.”

“Mean what?” Nicky says. 

Willy just looks at him, eyelashes fanning out over the red on his cheeks. Nicky supposes that was a stupid question. 

The whistle blows again, and they run. 

“I don’t think you’re kidding,” Nicky says, when they’re next stopped on a water break. He tips his head back to avoid seeing Willy wiping a hand over his mouth, the water on his lips making them glisten and tremble, his pectorals rising and falling. “I just think...I think it’s just a hockey thing.”

Willy shrugs. “With guys it's always a hockey thing,” he says. “So what?”

“So…” but Nicky doesn’t really have an answer to that, exactly. 

“I know what I want,” Willy says, and licks his lips. “You should listen to me.”

Nicky is left watching Willy’s ass as he stalks over to the bike. He’s probably had enough weights for today, anyway.

 

Willy and Lindholm want to go out to one of the bars after dinner, but thankfully Hedman glares enough at them that Nicky doesn’t have to. The game against Switzerland is tomorrow - this is the quarterfinals, and there is no excuse to slack off.

They end up in Landeskog’s room, drinking a reasonable amount of beers and chirping each other. Everyone’s Swedish gets deeper as they drink, the vowels sharper, regional differences more obvious. It’s been some time since Nicky could hear the difference between  Stockholmska and Lidingösvenska, but it's starting to sound so obvious to him now.

No one is drunk, but everyone is slightly brighter, cheeks redder, laughs louder, hands sloppier. Willy is still glowing, Nicky notices, poking at Lindholm’s shoulder for some reason and bursting into giggles. 

“You little shit,” Lindholm says, or something like it, before tackling Willy, pushing him down onto the bed, hands holding his wrists as Willy laughs. 

“You know I’m right!” Willy says, gasping it out between the giggles. 

Gabe, a beer in one hand, reaches across the bed to shove at Lindholm, who shoves back, and suddenly everyone is grappling, gulps of laughter making their grips weaker. A knee upends Nicky’s beer, and he shoves back at the unseen arm, and now he’s wrestling, too. It feels like when he was younger, a teenager in hotels across Europe, and it feels like last year with Burkie and MoJo in endless hotel rooms. All that tension, all these bodies in very close proximity. A bunch of big physical men in a room, all of whom are very competitive - it’s inevitable.

He ends up grappling with Willy, because of course he does. He’s not even sure who started it, but it feels like when they were kids, in the Nylander basement. Except that it doesn’t, at all. Willy is bigger now, a lot bigger. His thighs are actually works of art. 

Nicky has picked up a few tricks, and he cheats, so he ends up on top, pinning Willy under him, Nicky’s legs across Willy’s hips. Willy is giggling, that infectious laugh that makes him seem younger, more innocent. “You win, you win!” he says.

Willy looks like a Ken doll. If there was even one flaw or asymmetry to his face, everything would be so much easier.

“I win,” Nicky says, and he’s looking down at Willy now, expecting him to wriggle under Nicky’s hips, to make some suggestive smirk, to say something dirty in English. 

But Willy doesn’t, he’s just laughing. “Let me up, come on, you win,” he says, and that’s it.

Nicky’s disappointed, somehow.   
  
  


It’s warmups before their game against Switzerland, and Nicky is focusing on his ankles, trying to loosen the joints within the skates. His mind is that careful buzzing blankness that he’s cultivated over the years, a state of readiness and watchfulness. He thinks about video review, earlier that day, about Willy explaining Diaz’s weakness on the right side, about Hiller’s rebounds. 

There was something satisfying and rewarding about listening to Willy talk - he’s as good at seeing the ice as Nicky is, sometimes.  He sees hockey like Nicky does, after all their years watching it together, picking plays apart together. It is part of why it's so gratifying to play with him - Willy knows the same things, sees the same things. He can anticipate the plays that Nicky sees because he sees them, too.

He’s skating in circles now, tight turns, feeling his weight shift from thigh to foot. Half his mind is testing the ice, his blades, the flex on his stick. The other half is thinking about Willy talking, about him laughing, about the lines of his fingers on a beer glass, a hockey stick, a barbell. About his thighs, his biceps, that shiny blonde hair in face.

_Christ, Backstrom,_ he thinks. He shakes his head, minutely, and focuses, running through some of his grounding exercises. He focuses on the ice, on the feel of his gloves on his hands, the sound of his blades cutting through the ice, the music pumping through the sound system. A bass line, a girl’s voice singing…. _I’m trying I’m trying I’m trying I’m trying, oh trying, not to think about you, no no no no not to give in to you…_

He has to grin to himself as he processes the words, sure he looks insane to anyone watching him. Shit. 

He skates another loop, and Willy zooms past him, stickhandling the puck into a blur in front of him. 

The girl on the sound system sings,  _ Not to give in to you _ ... _ With my feelings on fire, guess I’m a bad liar. _

Shit.   
  


They win the game, of course. Nicky gets a goal, Willy assisting, and Willy gets a goal himself. Its beautiful. They play beautifully, the team is crackling, and Nicky’s head is blissfully clear, that  quiet even clarity that he only gets playing good hockey. 

They’re through to the semifinals. 

And the USA lost their game, and even though he doesn’t say it out loud, Nicky is ever so slightly pleased. He knows it makes no sense but, fuck the NHL, and the USA, too.

 

They do go out that night, the whole team, a restaurant that’s walking distance from the hotel. The Lundqvists are drinking whiskey in the corner, laughing at something only they understand, and Klingberg is telling a very long story about, Nicky thinks, a rodeo he went to in Texas. Eddie Lack is playing some game with Rask, and Willy is next to Nicky, watching Klingberg with wide eyes, a grin sneaking into his red lips. Nicky feels happy to be here, happy to be with his team, his country. It feels like a wave, washing over him, supporting him and keeping him afloat. 

He still feels that way, that buoyant comfortable happiness, as they leave the bar, as they walk down the streets back to their hotel. It's a warm night, a bit of a breeze, and everything feels easy, feels right. He’s walking slowly, and Willy is next to him, as always, as they fall a bit behind the team, the streets turning quiet around them. They aren’t talking, just walking beside each other. Willy stops, reaches down to scratch at his ankle, and when he stands up, Nicky kisses him.

It’s not a conscious choice, per se. It just feels like the right thing to do in this moment, on this quiet street, no one around. It feels easy.

Willy goes absolutely rigid under him, a gasp sneaking out of his mouth against Nicky’s lips. He pulls back, slightly, and says “oh my god,” in English. His eyes are wide, blue-green in the street lights. And then Willy kisses back, dives in, aggressive and fast, as if he wants to take everything he can possibly get in this moment. 

Willy’s hands are everywhere, running down Nicky’s chest, skittering up his ribs, squeezing around his neck, his shoulders, his back. His mouth is hot under Nicky’s, desperate and wild. Their teeth bump and Willy’s tongue curls into Nicky’s mouth, pushes against his lower lip. Nicky bites back, slightly, sucking Willy’s lower lip into his. Willy shivers, his hands pushing harder into Nicky’s hips, and then his hands move, again, as if Willy can’t decide what he wants the most. Willy moans into Nicky’s mouth, muted by the space between them, and Nicky brings his hand up to sink it into Willy’s endless blond hair.

There’s the sound of someone yelling in Swedish, up ahead, and they both jump. Nicky feels Willy’s lips pause, and he pulls away from the younger man. They’re in the middle of the street, they’re outside. Willy is 21.

Willy’s hair is in his eyes, and he’s breathing fast. He looks shocked, utterly surprised, like he was walking just home from the bar when a miracle appeared on the sidewalk in front of him. His eyes are huge, and his fingers are worrying at his sleeves, his hands still moving fast like they want somewhere else to be. 

“We should get back to the hotel,” Nicky says, and his voice comes out soft but it rasps. 

Willy nods, his eyes even wider. 

They start walking, and Nicky still feels like he’s riding that wave of solidity and happiness, only its cresting now, and looking down he can see an entire ocean of possibilities, deep and green and impenetrable. 

Kissing. He’s not gonna get arrested for kissing. 

 

He says goodnight to Willy at his room. Willy raises his eyebrows, and starts to say something - in English, Nicky is sure - but it's easy to say “Semifinals,” and smile, and Willy goes. Willy still seems dazed, and as he walks away his fingers are pulling at his lip, rubbing it over, and over. 

Nicky feels slightly dizzy, like he’d run too long without eating enough. He thinks about what Ovie’s face would look like if he told him. Maybe he should. Ovie could probably use some cheering up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in the stadium is, of course, Selena Gomez’s “Bad Liar” which came out around when I started writing this and I have listened to A LOT.


	4. Sweden v Finland - Semifinals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game before the last game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead, and neither is this fic! Just in grad school. Sorry!
> 
> This chapter is a bit shorter, but the next chapter will be a bit longer 0_0
> 
> Special thanks to my fave beta on this chapter, who sent me a selfie to prove that you can't stick a tongue out AND bite lips at the same time, and still look good doing it (but you always look good, baby).

He doesn’t tell Ovie. He doesn’t tell anyone, and he doesn’t even really think about it during the night, or the next morning. Nicky doesn’t think about anything - his mind is the buzzing blankness he gets before a game, and all he is thinking about is hockey. When he closes his eyes he sees shooting lanes and face off circles, blurs of yellow and blue. He feels like he’s moving in a fog, everything squeezed out of him except the desire to win, to be better, to see faster and see farther. To win.

He doesn’t think about Willy, about the pink of his lips, the gasp of air when Nicky kissed him, the quickness of his fingers skimming across Nicky’s back. They make blinders for horses, Nicky thinks, that let them see only what’s in front of them, and nothing around them. So the horses don’t get distracted. So they can go forward, and win.

Willy is looking at him- at breakfast, at practice, as they go back to the hotel to nap before the game. It’s different now, the way Willy watches him. Not the cocky smirk of the past few days, and not the shock and surprise that was on his face under the streetlight last night. He still looks disbelieving, but he looks hungry, too. And curious. Like he had just started a really good book, and he wants to know how it ends.

Or maybe Nicky is projecting, just a little.

They take the elevator together, standing smushed into the corner with three other members of Tre Kronor. Nicky’s hand brushes against Willy’s, and he realizes he’s swaying towards the younger man, not meaning to. He doesn’t move any closer, but he doesn’t move away.

Willy is looking him again, and smiling, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“We got this,” Klingberg says, as the elevator doors open. “Get ‘em, boys.”

Nicky half smiles, his mind on the ice. His hand is lightly touching Willy’s.

The hallway is empty by the time they’re in front of Willy’s door, everyone else sequestered in their rooms thinking about the next few hours. Nicky still isn’t thinking about the fact that he kissed Willy last night, except that he definitely, definitely is.

Willy eyes are bright and he’s watching Nicky’s face, and he doesn’t look wondering or surprised at all. His eyebrow quirks up, a question he knows the answer to.

Nicky leans forward and Willy leans too, and they meet in the middle. Willy’s lips are soft under his, barely moving, pliant and plush. Nicky’s arm snakes across Willy’s shoulders, feeling the solidity under his fingers. Kissing Willy feels easy, like something he’s been meaning to do all along. It feels like something he’s allowed to have. It’s just a kiss. Willy folds into him, his hands coming up to Nicky’s chest, warm and light against his shirt.

Nicky pulls back after only a few moments. A hallway, in a hotel, in Germany. Willy is barely 21. But Willy is grinning at him, his teeth bright in his face, and Nicky reaches out and kisses him one last time, quick. Friendly. Willy giggles against his mouth. “Hi,” he says.

“Have a good nap,” Nicky says, and his hand stubbornly refuses to move from Willy’s shoulder, but he gets it away eventually.

“You, too,” Willy calls after him as he walks away.

 

Edler scores less than two minutes into the game against Finland. It feels obvious, preordained. Finland ties it up a few minutes later, but none of the boys in yellow around him seem shaken, at all.

Willy gets an assist on the second Swedish goal, and then he scores, and its off Nicky’s assist. They are up 3-1 by the end of the second period.

Willy is next to him on the bench, and he cackles as they go over the boards together, a too loud sound, bright in the air. Nicky grins at him. He knows. He feels exactly the same way.

He and Willy aren’t even on the ice for the fourth goal, but they all swarm out as soon as the buzzer goes. They won, they won, they made it through the Semifinals, they are going to the FINALS. No matter what happens tomorrow, they’re going home with a medal. It’s so good, it feels so good. So right.

The team goes out immediately after the game, too ramped up to be responsible and go back to the hotel. Everyone is grinning, everywhere he looks is blond hair and white teeth. Nicky feels like he’s in a room with a pack of wolves, sharp, hungry and capable, but they’re his wolves. That doesn’t make a lot of sense, he decides, and gets another beer.

Willy is next to him, and he keeps touching Nicky - a hand on his hip, brushing his chest against Nicky’s back when he walks behind him, a thigh pushed up against him. Nicky lets him, and he touches back, once or twice, lets his fingers linger as he reaches his arm around Willy’s chair. It feels easy, it feels normal, this thing they’ve slipped into. Like it’s always been this way.

Nicky knows he fought against this, can remember that, and thinks he probably should still be fighting, but he can’t be bothered to, anymore. It feels too natural to let Willy take sips from his beer, to run his hand across Willy’s knee. This doesn’t feel like a battle he lost. It feels like he won something.

Willy is watching Landeskog across the table, laughing, his eyes slightly glazed - from the alcohol, probably, but maybe also because everyone is talking very quickly in Swedish and the bar is loud. Nicky feels a rush of fondness for him, for this glowing blond boy who’s come so far, who’s worked so hard, and who’s done so well. He has an image of Willy and Alex as kids, playing street hockey in the driveway, Willy’s eyebrows drawn in and his face serious.

He shakes it off, but his eyes are still on the man next to him, the line of Willy’s jaw, his long fingers overlaying his elbows on the table in front of them. Willy runs a hand through his hair and it falls back into his face, sweeping down like it was styled that way. Nicky finds himself laughing.

“What?” Willy asks, turning towards him. His eyes are dancing, and he just - he looks happy.

“Nothing, nothing,” Nicky says. Willy’s head cocks, and the side of his mouth starts to creep up. Those fucking dimples.

“Sometimes you look like you should be in a boy band, not the NHL,” Nicky says, in English, and reaches for his beer.

Willy barks out a laugh, a startled sound. There’s a pause, and he starts singing - obnoxiously, as nasal as he can make it. “You don't know you’re beautiful! Oh, oh oh! That’s what makes you beautiful!”

Nicky stares at him blankly. Willy is giggling now, giddy.

“Ok, I am not getting something,” Nicky says. “I don’t know that song.”

“Baby, you light up my life like nobody else,” Willy sings, falsetto, his voice extra high and thin, and he’s laughing, his hand in front of his lips, his eyes crinkling.

Nicky starts laughing, too, and he’s not sure at what, any more. At Willy’s face, at the tips of Willy’s fingers flickering across his line face. At beating Finland.

“Oh geez,” Willy says, still English. “You really don’t know that song?”

NIcky shakes his head, and he can feel that he’s grinning like a mad man. He hopes no one’s watching.

“This is all such a mess,” Willy says. He collapses into giggles again, and starts taking deep breaths, leaning his head onto Nicky’s shoulder.

They’re in a bar surrounded by professional hockey players, their teammates, a game away from a gold medal, all eyes on them. Such a mess, Nicky thinks, and strokes his hand lightly through Willy’s hair, leaning towards him, and tries very hard not to think about what might happen next.

 

They lean into each other all the way back to the hotel, a quiet pair in the middle of raucous Team Sweden. The third or fourth time that Willy ‘bumps’ into him, Nicky steadies him, puts an arm on his shoulder, and Willy responds with an arm around Nicky’s waist. His arm is warm where it touches Nicky, even through their clothes, and it’s like liquid heat running up Nicky’s spine, through his whole body. Like they belong this way.

Nicky thinks, as they walk into the hotel, that this is supposed to feel strange and dangerous. It did last time they did this walk, Willy staring at him intently, Nicky trying not to react and failing. And if he lets himself think too much, it does feel like that, but an arm around Willy’s shoulder, hanging off of Willy’s back - it seems so easy. He waits until everyone else gets off the elevator, and kisses Willy’s temple. Willy twists under his arm, shoulder sliding across Nicky’s chest, until he’s looking straight at him. Their eyes are inches apart. Their mouths, too.

“Let’s go,” Willy says, and pulls at his arm to herd Nicky off the elevator.

Nicky laughs, and follows. This is ‘next,’ Nicky thinks. He feels like they skipped through several steps, several years. Past the part where they get to know each other, the part where they feel awkward and strange straight into - this. It’s probably not a good thing.

They’re in front of Nicky’s hotel room door, again. Again. Willy is staring at him, and his teeth are sinking into his lips, slowly, dragging over the pink of the skin there, but he’s not saying anything.

 _Shit_ , Nicky thinks, and takes a deep breath. It could almost be called a sigh. This is a terrible idea, he thinks, but it feels like the decision has already been made, by someone other than him, and he’s just carrying through with the plan.

Out loud, Nicky says, in English, “Five minutes. Less. We have a game.”

Willy’s mouth opens, his eyes getting incredibly large. The corners of his lips are curving up.

“A game, tomorrow!” Nicky says, and turns away from Willy to open the door before he can make any more terribly enticing decisions.

Willy’s in Nicky’s hotel room almost before the door is open, and he spins around, staring back at Nicky as Nicky walks in. Nicky’s trying to stay composed, as if this is a totally normal teammate in hotel room situation. Maybe they’re talking about Canada’s blue line. They could be.

Willy has stopped moving. He doesn’t reach for Nicky, standing still, arms at his side, and his eyes look impossibly wide. He looks almost awed.

“Do you-” Nicky says, and trails off. He’s the adult here, though, and he knows it. “We’re not having sex, or anything. We have a game tomorrow.” He walks closer, the last step, half step between them.

“Oh,” Willy says, and he doesn’t sound smug, and he’s not protesting, like Nicky thought he would. “That’s…that’s ok, I...” and it seems like he’s trying to think of the next word. Nicky reaches a hand out, runs his palm across the other man’s cheek, down his neck.

“I”m going to kiss you now,” Nicky says. “Is that ok?”

“Oh my god,” Willy says. It’s English, and he sounds incredibly teenaged. “Yes, fucking, come on -” and his mouth crashes against Nicky’s, hot and wet and desperate. Nicky staggers back half an inch, an inch, before centering his weight and wrapping his other arm around Willy, drawing him in, closer.

“I’ve been waiting _forever_ ,” Willy says, against Nicky’s lips. It no longer sounds like a complaint, or a whine. It just sounds like the truth.

Willy’s tongue is curling against his, and this doesn’t feel easy any more. Willy is moving fast, sucking great gasps of air every time their mouths part. Nicky tries to slow it down, tries to gentle him, but Willy’s not having it, and that much frantic energy is overpowering. Willy’s hands come up to his neck, twine around him, his hands tangling through Nicky’s hair. It feels incredible, fast and getting faster. They’re pressed even closer now, Willy warm and solid against Nicky’s chest. He can feel Willy’s pulse, jackrabbiting through their clothes, the rhythm surrounding them. Willy’s shoulders feel huge and solid under Nicky’s hands, as he runs the flats of his fingers across the planes of Wily’s back, feels the warmth through his shirt. Willy’s hands pull at his hair, tugging just a touch harder, and Willy tilts his head, their mouths fitting together so perfectly that Nicky moans.

Willy’s hands tug at his hair harder, pressure on Nicky’s scalp, before he lets go and runs his hands down Nicky’s sides, circling tight around his waist. Nicky feels like his lips are operating in some part of time and space independent of him, all heat and slide and pressure. He bites into Willy’s lip, just a touch of his teeth, and Willy melts into him, pressing into all the spaces he wasn’t already taking up. Nicky feels like he might be drowning, maybe, and he’s getting harder. Willy’s erection is becoming more obvious, grinding into Nicky’s hip.

Adult, Nicky thinks. Eight years older, Nicky thinks. Be the responsible one. But he runs his hand across Willy’s collarbones, dipping below his shirt, before bringing his hand up the warm column of his neck and across his jaw, angling Willy’s face just right to slide their tongues together further.

Nicky opens his eyes, which had closed at some point. Willy’s eyes are closed, and he looks totally awash, at sea. His skin is pale and inviting, smooth and perfect. He’s so young.

Nicky pulls back, finally. They can’t do this, and his traitorous brain adds ‘right now’ to the end of that sentence when it didn’t need to be there. Willy lists towards him a bit, his face leaning toward Nicky’s, before he opens his eyes. He’s pouting, lips red and shiny, slick and slightly swollen. He’s breathing heavily, and his eyes are still wide.

“That was definitely more than five minutes,” Nicky says, and his voice is a rasp.

“I definitely don’t care,” Willy says. His arms are on Nicky’s hips, his fingers trailing lower, and he’s clutching at Nicky like he’s holding on for dear life.

“I know,” Nicky says. “But…”

There’s a pause in the air, both of them breathing in each other’s air, incredibly close in the dark. Eventually, Willy straightens, and Nicky can almost feel him putting himself back together, vertebrae by vertebrae. His hand drifts lower, and in the dim light he can see the cocky grin come back to Willy’s face, and his mouth opens to say something.

“Gold medal,” Nicky says, and then says it in English, too. “Gold medal, tomorrow. Ok?” Tomorrow. He can decide about all this tomorrow, after they win.

Willy sighs, and drops his head, his forehead bumping into Nicky’s nose. “Ok, fine,” he says, but he doesn’t move. They’re still draped loosely around each other, the similarity in their height allowing them to rest there.

Willy grabs a handful of Nicky’s ass, squeezes, slow and deliberate. He looks up, meets Nicky’s eyes, and rolls his hips, pointedly bringing the lines of his pelvis against NIcky’s cock, pressure and an incredibly sweet drag. A promise, the temptation of warm skin and friction. Willy’s tongue is swiping across his bottom lip.

Nicky sucks his breath in, a short hiss, and Willy grins before stepping back.

“See you tomorrow,” he says, and his eyes are dancing. He adjusts himself in his pants like there’s nothing uncomfortable about it at all.

“Uh, yeah,” Nicky says, unsure how exactly things shifted, why suddenly he’s the one off balance. He’s really hard.

“Good luck,” Willy says, English. “Think about what we’re gonna do when we win,” and then he’s gone, the hotel door slowly swinging closed and shutting with a loud click.

 _Shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to BelleLegacy for the boy band joke, thank you!


	5. Sweden v Canada - Final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky (and Willy) get what they came to Worlds for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I finished grad school, the Caps won the goddamn Stanley Cup, and Sweden won gold at Worlds, again. Here is the last chapter of this fic, thank you for everyone who’s kept reading and for all the sweet comments, and for waiting while I was so slow! Before this, I had never posted a fic in chapters that was unfinished before, and man, I will never do it again. 
> 
> If you havent seen the fanvid Sportsnet made about this fic, I really recommend it.  
> https://www.sportsnet.ca/hockey/nhl/nylander-backstrom-bromance-goes-well-beyond-rink/ 
> 
> Also shout out to RMNB for their incredibly thorough 'Nicklas Backstrom at Worlds’ coverage! Couldn’t have done it without you!
> 
> Extra special thank yous to the hockey group chat for ALL of their tireless diligence, patience and conscientiousness about where everyone's hands were, as well as putting up with my whining and crankiness. And just general thank you to the hockey group chat for...everything.

Later, over the offseason and after, Nicky doesn’t remember the final game very well, but he remembers the shootout, every painstaking second of it.

He remembers sitting on the bench, feeling tense and nervous, and unpleasantly distant, like anything could happen and it wasn’t in his control. That’s what most of the game had felt like - weird bounces, shots that just wouldn’t go in when they were supposed to. He’d gotten called on two penalties, which was proof that something in the universe was off, but they’d held on and now they were in a shootout for the _gold medal_. A shootout. Ridiculous.

His stomach swoops when Willy’s shot misses, an immediate visceral sense of disappointment, but it’s not for himself, or even the team. He doesn’t want Willy to feel bad about not getting it in; the second hand embarrassment is worse than it would be if it was his own shot.

But Willy is fine - he stares at the ceiling as he skates back to the bench, heaves his shoulders, and by the time he is sitting down he’s calling out encouragement to OEL, chewing his mouthguard with those red, red lips.

OEL makes his shot.

Nicky makes his shot.

Canada hasn’t scored yet, and when the little Leaf - Marner - starts skating towards the puck Nicky realizes he’s stopped breathing. He can’t tear his eyes off Marner’s stick, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Willy. He is leaning forward, practically standing, his hand clutched around his stick.

Marner shoots, and for a second Nicky loses the puck, can’t see what happened, but suddenly everyone around him is screaming at the top of their lungs, and Henke is screaming at them, his hands in his big gloves gesturing. The puck is nowhere near the goal, which means they won. They won.

Willy is already halfway across the ice, and he jumps into the air as he approaches Henke’s crease. Nicky vaults over the boards himself, and he can’t feel the ice under him as he careens towards them. Willy jumps - he always jumps on his cellies - and Henke bends his knees to catch him but Willy bowls him over, and they’re both on the ice, Henke laughing. Henke. HENKE.

Nicky launches himself on top of them, not even caring where he lands as a series of bright yellow shapes barrel into him. He’s at the bottom of a pile of people, large, heavy people with sharp, heavy limbs, but he doesn’t mind. He can hear Willy laughing, the soft noises bright in his ears, even through all the screaming. He’s being crushed by a pile of his sweaty teammates, and he does not care. They won.

Everything feels blurry at center ice, the team gliding around in their pads and looming over the camera men and officials, flat-footed in their dress shoes and sneakers. There’s a carpet, and medals, and Nicky can’t stop grinning. He feels like he’s vibrating, keyed up on the win and their gold medal (gold medal!), and the joy and excitement of the boys around him.Someone has picked Henke up off the ice.

Willy is named MVP of the whole tournament, and Nicky hadn’t thought he could get any happier, but he it turns out he can, he does, he is. He’s so delighted for Willy, and proud of him. Willy deserves it, he’s been incredible.

He can feel the bruises on his back as people hug him - probably from Klinger’s elbows as they fell into the pile - but he doesn’t care.

One of the reasons Nicky came to Worlds was to play with Willy, to see what kind of player he’d grown into. This is who he’s become, and Nicky is so thrilled he almost can’t stand it. He’s proud of his team, of himself, yes, but he’s so happy for Willy it feels like the feeling is his own, like he’s proud of something _he_ did, not another person. He didn’t know he could feel this strongly about someone else’s accomplishments, except for Ovi, sometimes.

Nicky hugs Willy as soon as he can, as soon as Willy is released from the formalities and skates directly towards Nicky. He throws an arm around Willy and he doesn’t let go, lets their skates carry them across the ice, puts a hand on Willy’s chest and pats him, feeling possessive, and proud, and feeling a burning desire to touch him every way he can. Willy says something, Nicky doesn’t even know what. His eyes are sparkling below the little white cap. He’s so close. It would be so easy, so easy, to kiss him, right now, in front of all these fucking people.

Nicky doesn’t, of course. For one thing, there are a trillion cameras from a dozen countries on them right now. But he thinks about it, and he wonders if it shows on his face.

 

There’s pizza in the locker room. They bring it in in shopping carts, and Nicky’s so hungry but he can’t start eating it because there are reporters, and interviews, and there’s a lot of champagne, and so much shitty beer.

A woman asks if he and Willy will do an interview together, because they are a popular story line, he thinks, or maybe because they are standing so close to each other and neither of them has moved away. That’s fine, Nicky thinks - Willy can talk to cameras, it’ll be like standing next to Ovi and looking attentive but unremarkable.

She asks Willy what it’s like to win a world championship, with Nicky, and it’s hard for Nicky to keep his ‘unremarkable’ face on as Willy calls him an idol and talks about how he wanted to be like Nicky when he was younger. It’s a confusing dichotomy he’s starting to get used to around Willy. He feels protective of him, sweet, like he does with all his favorite people....but also something else, something hotter and wilder, and when the corner of Willy’s mouth quirks up Nicky wants to bite at it. Willy sounds raspy, his voice deep and guttural, and Willy tells the interviewer it’s because he got slashed in the neck. But Nicky cracks a smile, leans in and says “He actually just hit puberty,” into the microphone. Willy laughs, but looks at him a little sidelong. Nicky grins back, unrepentant.

Someone hands him another beer, and he’s already eaten too much pizza - he knows he’ll regret it next week. When he turns back around, Willy’s shirt is off, which isn’t terribly surprising. It’s nothing Nicky hasn't seen before, but he’s had a couple of beers now, and he feels like he’s staring. Willy doesn’t have the muscle mass he would have had at the beginning of the season - he looks a bit rangy, they all do. But Nicky’s eyes linger on the curve of his shoulders, the divots down his chest, the line of his hips as they trail past the waistband of his pants.

_I can have that_ , he thinks. Suddenly things feel very real. Maybe he should stop drinking, he thinks, but finishes his beer instead.

Lindberg is next to him now, and they fall into yet another hug, grinning like idiots and gripping each other. It still doesn't feel real, even as the medal is hanging around his neck, even as the room is buzzing with congratulations and cheers.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Willy says, gesturing to them both. “Liney selfie!”

Lindberg laughs and leans back, and there’s a flurry of phones. Nicky ends up taking the picture, on Willy’s phone. The three of them are squished together, leaning back against the locker room walls, their medals in their hands. Nicky can’t get the button to work, his hands uncoordinated and sweaty, and Willy is laughing at him.

“I got it, I got it,” he says, batting Willy’s hand away as he tries to help. “My arms are longer than yours anyway, _sötnos_.”

Willy just smiles at him, his face open and happy. He looks like he’s on top of the world, like he’s gotten all that he wants. That’s [the picture](https://www.instagram.com/p/BUX5Aiih3rb/?utm_source=ig_embed) Nicky ends up taking, the one that goes out on the internet. Willy smushed next to him, the slope of his chest, Lindberg grinning on the other side. And Nicky angled into the side of the frame, looking startled like he always does in photos, sweaty and a mess. Looking like he doesn’t know what hit him.

 

Someone - he thinks Landy is the first - jumps into the hot tub, still in their clothes. That’s stupid, but most of the team ends up in the water eventually, too. Someone got yellow lights from somewhere, and the whole room is bathed in the colors of the Tre Kronor. It makes everything look sort of sickly and jaundiced, but it doesn’t matter since everyone can’t stop grinning anyway.

Leaning against the wall, Nicky has an idea that actually they’re all glowing, that the yellow light is coming _from_ them, or from their gold medals.

Gold medal.

He shakes his head, and finishes his beer. He’s lost count of how many he’s had, but he’s not so drunk. He’s definitely drunk, but, like, not so drunk.

He manages to maintain that level of drunk through the bar they go to, and then onwards to someone’s hotel room - Karlsson, maybe? - before he decides to call it a night and start trying to sleep some of this off before their flight tomorrow.

He hasn’t seen Willy in a minute or two, and he tells himself he’s not looking when he takes a cursory glance around the room. _It’s for the bes_ t, he thinks, when he doesn’t see him anywhere. This - winning, the medal, his team - this is more than enough.

He stands up, tossing his beer can into the pile by the door. He’s slipped out into the hallway, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone, when he hears a “hey” behind him.

He knows it’s Willy before he even turns around.

Ok.

Ok, maybe he doesn’t go to sleep quite yet.

_This is what you wanted,_ he thinks to himself, and it feels like the truth.

“Hi,” Nicky says. He’s pretty sure Willy put his shirt back on at some point, probably when they were out in public, but he’s not wearing one now. Willy’s eyes are a bit glassy and they look big and wide now, and he’s biting his lower lip. Nicky finds his glance skittering across the other man, from his hips to the hair curling on his forehead to the fingers at his side.

Willy cocks his head to the side. Neither of them says anything - they’re standing in a hallway, staring at each other, the sounds of the ongoing party echoing through the door behind them.

He’s been avoiding this moment, Nicky realizes. This thing with Willy has felt so inevitable, like there’s nothing Nicky can do to avoid or resist it. Until now, he had the excuse of the tournament, more games on the horizon. Now that’s over, and he has nothing left but to let it happen, to follow through on a decision he feels he’s already made.

“Hey,” Willy says again, finally breaking the silence. “You going up?”

Nicky nods. He licks his lips, and says, “You?” He had meant it to be something like, _Do you want to come with?_ , but that’s not what comes out.

“I’m coming with you,” Willy says, and his voice is steady even if he keeps blinking, his eyes darting around.

NIcky pauses. He feels like he should have some sort of major response, some way of deciding that this is happening, but all he feels is frozen, stuck in this moment, in the glow of the hallway and the beer he can still taste on tongue.

Willy steps closer. They’re about a meter apart now, less.

“Do you need me to seduce you, all over again?” Willy says. His voice is still raspy, and its low now in the hallway.

“No,” Nicky says, and his voice has gotten lower, too, it rumbles out of him. “Do you want to?”

Willy meets his eyes, holds there. “Let’s go to your room,” he says.

They walk down the hallway, listing slightly into each other. Nicky is trying to think, trying to figure out what is going to happen, what he wants to happen, but all he is aware of is Willy near him, the jolt of electricity when their hands brush against each other. It swirls through him, mixing with alcohol and the rush of winning. Before he knows it, they’re at his room, and then the door’s unlocked, and then they’re standing next to Nicky’s bed as the door swings shut.

“Hey,” Willy says, his hand moving towards his own chest. Nicky’s eyes follow it, and he feels his awareness start to narrow down, his brain quieting as his body gets warm, as his tongue licks his lips involuntarily.

Willy’s eyes are sparkling now, and he seems sure. “Look what I have.” He picks up the medal hanging around his neck, holds it out to Nicky. “A gold medal,” Willy says. “MVP, too. What do I get for it?”

It seems like Willy is more confident when he’s being seductive, Nicky thinks. Like that’s easier for him, the braggadocio, the play acting. It’s sweet, Nicky thinks.

And then catches himself. _Sweet_.

He runs his eyes over Willy, being as deliberate as he can while staring as his chest, his crotch, his lips. Nicky wants Willy. He really does, the sculpted muscles, the youth that almost glows off him, the big round eyes. But Nicky _likes_ Willy, too. He always has, for years. And it’s that thought - lust mixed with affection, friendship overlaid with desire - that pushes him forward, pushes him to reach toward Willy’s face, run a hand along his cheek.

“You get what you want,” Nicky rasps, and kisses him.

He had expected this time to be frantic, like all the other times, but it’s not, at least not at first. Willy’s lips are taut and he tastes slightly of beer until it washes away, and then it’s just warmth and softness, slow lingering licks and the feeling of Willy relaxing under him. Willy sighs, slightly, and sways forward, his arms coming around Nicky’s shoulders. It feels tender, slow like they have nothing but time, now. As if this is the beginning, and they’re not racing towards anything.

Willy is pressing into him, pushing him slightly, so Nicky finds himself walking backwards, pulling Willy with him. Their legs bump together as they walk, pushing their hips into each other. They’re the same height, Nicky thinks. It keeps surprising him.

Willy bites lightly at his neck, pressure right along the tendon there, and Nicky moans before he can stop himself. WIlly looks up, briefly, makes enough eye contact to send Nicky an absolutely wicked grin, and bites in the same spot harder, while rolling his hips against Nicky’s.

It isn’t soft or sweet anymore. Willy is clutching at him, his fingers digging into Nicky’s back, and Nicky is gasping for air and running his hands through Willy’s hair, tugging at the blond locks slightly. He tugs harder and pulls Willy’s head back a little, moving his face so that Willy’s mouth is closer to his, and then they’re kissing again, almost attacking each other in a rush to get closer, to feel each other more. Willy’s hands are coursing up Nicky’s back and arms, falling back down to squeeze his ass. Nicky pushes at Willy’s chest, separating them just enough to run his fingers over Willy’s perfect rounded pecs. He traces down further, running across Willy’s abs and hitting the waistband of his jeans.

Willy jolts, his whole body tensing, his mouth leaving Nicky’s. His eyes are huge and reflective in the dim light - they forgot to turn a light on, Nicky realizes. There’s moonlight from the window, ambient lights from outside.

Willy is staring at him, breathing hard. His face is flushed, fine blond hairs sticking to his temples, his mouth swollen and shiny. Nicky wants to touch it, wants to push his fingers against those lips. And then he has the realization, yet again - he _can_ have this.

So he does.

Nicky reaches out, brings his index finger to Willy’s lower lip, watches the indentation there. Willy breathes, the air ghosting across Nicky’s fingers, and stares at him.

Nicky feels a smile tug at the corner of his lip, and suppresses it. “Take off your clothes,” he says.

“Uh, you, too,” Willy says, even as he’s pulling off his shoes and then his jeans.

They both slow down to take their medals off, reverent. Nicky stares at his before leaving it on the hotel desk. It’s not like he’s going to forget it.

Nicky walks back the two or three steps to sit on the bed once he’s naked. He spreads his thighs just a little more than he has to, watches Willy’s eyes go straight to his cock. Nicky smiles, though he doesn’t think Willy is even looking at his face.

There’s a pause, Willy standing naked in front of him, the shadows pooling in the divots of his hips, underneath the ridges of his clavicles.

“Well?” Nicky says. Willy’s eyes snap back to his face, and he looks startled. He bites his bottom lip, and Nicky feels the echo of his own finger there.

“Show me,” Nicky says, smirking. He gestures towards his dick in what he hopes isn’t a completely gross way.

Willy looks stunned. His fingers are twitching against his thigh like he wants to reach out, to touch, but he no longer knows if he can. Nicky knows he’s not really being fair, teasing him like this, but he’s enjoying it too much.

“You keep talking about it,” Nicky says. “About your mouth on my dick, about what you want. Let’s see what you can do,” and he looks down, his eyes pointedly eyeing the floor about six inches in front of his spread feet.

He thinks Willy is probably still gaping at him, until the younger man breaks, suddenly, and folds onto his knees in a flash with a “fuck, _Nicky_.”

Nicky leans back, slightly, puts his hands behind him and regards the man in front of him. Willy is knee walking across the carpet, his hands reaching up to grip at Nicky’s thighs, his breath coming fast. He runs a hand up and down Nicky’s dick, grip rough and fast and slightly too much, before putting his hands back on Nicky’s thighs, and squeezing.

Willy leans his head down and licks at Nicky’s dick in a way that almost feels experimental. Apparently satisfied with what he finds, he does it again, making his tongue longer and flatter, pressure on the vein under the head, warm and wet. It feels so good, visceral and sharp, pleasure that feels like its pulled out of him. Nicky breathes in quickly, and shifts.

“Do you….Are you .. gonna…” Willy trails off. Nicky doesn’t say anything. Watching Willy shift and squirm is fun, and it feels exactly right to watch Willy not know what he wants, what he’s going to do. “Do you want me to use my hands?”

“This is your show,” Nicky says, and spreads his legs a bit wider, repositions his feet on the floor so his dick bobs between them. “Should you?”

Willy gapes at him again. His eyes are glassy and wide and his mouth open, and Nicky wants to totally consume him, be consumed by him. He wants that mouth on his dick so badly, but he waits.

“Fuck,” Willy says, and shifts on the floor, raising up onto his knees. His own dick juts up, and Nicky can see how hard he is, how much he likes this already.

Willy looks up at him, keeping eye contact as he hollows his mouth into a perfect O before sliding it onto Nicky’s dick. Nicky looks at him until he can’t any more, until his eyes squeeze shut at the image before him and the feel of a mouth on his dick.

It’s warm and wet, so wet - spit is trickling out the sides of Willy’s mouth, sloppy and dripping. Willy wraps a hand around his cock, strokes up to meet his lips. It’s tight and slick, and Nicky’s head drops back towards his shoulder blades involuntarily. _Fuck_ , fuck.

Willy moans, and Nicky feels the vibrations around his dick, the hum going into his balls, and it’s so much, overwhelming and deep and perfect. Willy’s tongue is laving at the underside, and Nicky feels his chest heave, his breaths becoming audible.

Willy pulls off, and Nicky opens his eyes, looks down at the other man. Willy is holding his cock still, licking the head, little kitten licks like he’s tasting him, like he wants to savor it. His eyes open, meet Nicky’s, and Willy leans back, groans.

“Are you -” he says, and his throat must be wrecked, his voice is totally gone. “God. I just -” And he stops talking, puts his mouth back on Nicky’s dick, hot and wet and tight and Nicky feels a groan come out of his mouth, like it’s punched out of him.

Willy is putting on a show, and he is good at this, licking the head, swirling his tongue along the underside, applying pressure in the right spots and keeping Nicky guessing. He hollows his mouth again and brings his lips practically all the way down Nicky’s shaft, jacks him with his hand, sucks hard. There’s no blood left in Nicky’s brain, just the warm rush of sensation, building inexorably, washing through him. He feels his dick get impossibly harder, pulses of precome in Willy’s mouth.

Willy pops off, the sound obscene in the dark room. He’s jacking Nicky off, watching his own hand in what seems like awe.

“D-do you...what do you want to do?” Willy says, and his eyes are huge under his lashes, looking up at Nicky. Nicky’s so close, and Willy looks so good down there. Nicky watches Willy’s other hand wandering to his own crotch, sees him squeeze his thigh, close to but not touching his cock, which is jutting straight out, completely hard.

Nicky pulls himself together, his voice barely wavering as he says, “You have to decide.” He wants to see what Willy will pick, wants to be surprised.

Willy’s eyes are reflecting the light from the window, and his lips are wet enough that they shine in the darkness. “Ok,” he says, sounding breathless. “Ok, um,” and his mouth is back on Nicky’s dick, sucking close and moving up and down the shaft, tight and hot and perfect. Nicky can’t hold on, he feels himself start to come apart, and Willy pops off, his hand furiously stroking Nicky’s dick, and his eyes are huge, like he doesn’t know what to expect. His mouth opens, just slightly, as if waiting, and that’s when Nicky comes all over Wily’s face, feels it rattle through him. His hands tense and then release in the sheets, pleasure coursing out of him and curling back in, white hot and impossible to contain. He thinks he’s probably groaning aloud, and he falls backwards onto the bed. The last thing he sees is Willy cringing slightly as yet more come splatters onto his face.

Nicky floats there for a bit, his toes curling as he rides out the aftershocks. Eventually, he sits up and looks down at Willy, whose tongue is out, licking at the side of his mouth. Willy looks up, meets Nicky’s eyes, and wipes the back of his hand across his face.

“Holy shit, Nicky,” Willy says, and he’s on his knees now, climbing onto the bed, legs on either side of Nicky’s hips. His eyes are even wider, if that’s possible. He looks like he’s so turned on he can’t think. “That was _so_ hot.”

Nicky breathes, lets himself smile.

“I can’t- god,” Willy says, drawing out the last word. His hand is on his dick now, touching himself quickly, as if he’s not even aware of it, his cock wet at the tip and smoothing the way. He whimpers, staring at Nicky,

“No, wait,” Nicky says, his hand going towards Willy’s hip. Watching him desperate to get himself off is hot, obviously, but its not what Nicky wants right now.

“I’ve never done it like that before, oh my god,” Willy babbles, “I want, I can’t believe-Was that good for you? I-”

“Shh,” Nicky says. “Stop touching,” and he slowly pulls Willy’s hand off his dick. “Come here.” Nicky kisses him, lush and deep, and Willy melts into him, warm and solid against him.

Nicky shifts them, twists so Willy’s back is on the bed and Nicky’s hovering over him, pressing kisses to the sides of his face, biting at his lower lip. Willy’s hands clutch at Nicky’s hips, nails digging in.

Nicky raises himself onto straight arms, stares down. Willy is panting, his eyes blinking rapidly, biting his lip. Nicky wants to touch everything, all that golden perfect skin. He wants it to be in colors, wants marks of his being there. Wants Willy to remember.

He kisses Willy’s neck, starts to suck, runs his teeth down to Willy’s collarbone. Willy’s back arches under him, and he moans, high in his throat as Nicky bites down.

“You’re gonna be on TV,” Nicky says, moving back up to look into Willy’s face. “You’re going to have to stop taking your shirt off.”

Willy huffs out the beginning of a laugh and pulls at Nicky’s shoulders, pulling him down against Willy’s body, finding his mouth again in the dark. Nicky can feel him pushing up, his dick hard against Nicky’s hip, rolling his hips almost out of his own control.

Nicky moves his lips towards Willy’s ear, says, low and gravelly, “Do you want to fuck me?”

He feels Willy shudder under him, fingers gripping harder, a breath punched out of him. “Nicky-Yes, god, yes, please.”

Nicky’s old now, he knows it, and he’s been drinking for hours. He knows he won’t be able to come again, but he wants to watch Willy lose control, wants to give himself to Willy like a present.

“You got tested, coming to Worlds, right?” Nicky says as he shifts, moving, letting Willy scramble up. Team Sweden had poked and prodded at him the day he’d landed in Germany, and he’s pretty sure Willy got the same panel he did. He tosses Willy the lube that he keeps in his travel bag.

“Yeah, yeah,” Willy says, and he still sounds breathless, like he’s holding himself together. “It’s ok.”

Nicky’s turns onto his stomach, the hotel comforter pulled back, scratchy sheets sticking to his chest. Willy trails a finger down his back, through the cleft of his ass, circling and massaging around his hole before breaching the rim. The penetration feels like a lot, almost overwhelming, but Nicky leans into it, lets the sensation bubble through him, transmutes discomfort into resolve like he has so many times before.

Willy’s doesn’t linger, but he’s thorough, adding fingers when he feels like Nicky’s ready. It only takes him a couple different angles to find Nicky’s prostate, and he strokes over it, attentive but not wanting to move too fast. Nicky shivers, feels the build of pleasure that comes with this position, lets himself go languid and pliable. Willy’s done this before, clearly. That’s good, Nicky thinks, with the part of his brain that isn’t focused on the feel of Willy’s fingers inside him, the tense, short breaths that Willy takes, the warmth and sparks spreading from his prostate throughout his body.

“Ok,” Nicky says, when the sensation starts to become too good, too much to stay with, and Willy freezes, three fingers inside him. Nicky wriggles. “Come on, fuck me” he says.

Nicky gets on his hands and knees, braced against the feeling of Willy pushing into him, hot and heavy and _full_. There is the usual burn, the base feeling of violation and entry that Nicky actually relishes before his body relaxes into it, and he pushes himself back towards Willy, screwing himself open on his dick.

“Fuck,” Willy says, and he starts moving. His hands are gripping Nicky’s hips, and he doesn’t stop talking, even as he pounds into Nicky, Nicky’s hands flat on the bed and his entire body shaking with it. “God, you’re so good,” Willy says, panting the words out. “I’ve wanted this for so long, knew you’d be gorgeous like this.”

He fucks Nicky hard, and Nicky loves it. _Nails_ him, Nicky thinks, the word coming into his mind in English. He feels full up and bright, like he might explode. Distantly, he feels his cock is getting hard again.

“God, I...” Willy says, and moans, mouths at the back of Nicky’s neck, one hand landing on the bed under Nicky’s head. Words spill out of him, broken and rushed, like he can’t control himself. “I wanted you so bad, wanted you to want this, just like this, _fuck_.”

Nicky feels Willy’s full weight on him, fucking into him, thrusting hard and fast enough that the bed is creaking and shaking. He feels like he’s being crushed, the muscles around his pelvis tightening, sensation building higher. They’re the same size, he thinks, wildly. It’s easy like this.

Willy slows, slightly, and his hand snakes around Nicky’s hip, knuckles brushing Nicky’s mostly hard cock before finding a grip, loose and sloppy.

“I’m not gonna come again - _ahh_ ,’ Nicky says, drowning himself out as Willy slides his hand in time with thrusting into him, sparks and lights behind his eyes. It’s so good.

“Shut up,” Willy says, in English.

It’s a lot, it’s a _lot_ , Willy’s hand moving across his dick, wet and sticky from lube, sweat, pre-come, maybe Nicky’s come from before. Willy’s thrusts speed up even as Nicky feels his entire body go stiff behind him.

“FUCK,” Willy gasps, and then cries out, hoarse and high pitched, before slamming into Nicky one last time, hard enough that Nicky’s hands slide and the two of them collapse facedown onto the bed. Nicky can feel the pulses of come inside him, hot and wet.

Nicky is buzzing all over, his dick hard but not desperate, keyed up and enjoying Willy’s desperate gasps of air above him, the feel of Willy’s skin twitching where it touches his.

Nicky can feel Willy’s heartbeat slow, slightly, before Willy pushes himself up and out and off. Nicky wriggles, slightly, adjusting to the loss Their skin is sweaty and sticking together, the cool air a relief and a surprise against Nicky’s back.

“Turn over,” Willy says, gruff and demanding even as he still sounds breathless.

Nicky rolls his eyes even as he does. “I’m old, kiddo, I can’t-” he says, cut off as Willy kisses him, dirty and demanding, sucking his lip in between his teeth.

Willy pulls his mouth away and says, “You’re not that fucking old.” One of his hands circles Nicky’s dick and the other skitters down, below his balls and further.

“Oh, fuck,” Nicky says, as two - he thinks - of Willy’s fingers slide inside of him, deep and curled just right. It’s intense, everything heat and pressure as Willy’s fingers slide along his dick, tight and almost too rough. Nicky gasps and whines, the sound fading away as he breathes in again. It feels amazing, but he’s not going to come, he knows it, it’s just not-

And then suddenly, he is, come trickling out of his dick and down Willy’s knuckles as Nicky’s mind whites out. Shit, shit, _shit_. He feels blindsided, hit on the head, even as his whole body is subsumed in waves of pleasure, the feeling exploding out of his dick and his prostate and...geez. Fuck. It goes on and on. He has no idea how much time has passed, just shocky waves of good, so _good_.

When Nicky’s eyes open, Willy is grinning at him, cocky and almost smug. He deserves that, Nicky thinks, and he feels too wrung out to think anything else.

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

Willy’s taken his fingers out, is smearing them across the lower part of the bed sheets. “Yeah, you said that,” he says.

Nicky can’t move, and he can’t even remember why he should. He thunks his head back into a pillow as he feels Willy fall next to him.

“I’m not leaving,” Willy says, his mouth mostly muffled as he buries his face in Nicky’s shoulder.

“Ok,” Nicky says, and shuffles himself over the few inches so that his side is pressed against Willy’s, his arm coming up around Willy’s shoulder. There’s something he should be doing, he thinks, but, he can’t be bothered with what it is.

 

Nicky wakes up, cold, in a dark room. His head hurts and he’s sticky.

He shifts, and there’s a body next to him, and it all comes rushing back. He really did that, he thinks to himself, and...god. _They_ really did that. His stomach swoops, and he might still be drunk. Who knows, honestly.

Nicky gets up, washes his hands and tries to get some of the come off his stomach, bleary eyed. He doesn’t turn any of the lights on. He stumbles back towards his bed, where Willy hasn’t woken up.

Nicky squints against the sunlight coming through the closed blinds. It must be close to dawn, the light yellow and syrupy as it glints off the medals on the desk, as it makes Willy’s skin glow. _Gold medal,_ Nicky thinks. That’s probably come on Willy’s wrist, the hand that is pillowed under his cheek.

Nicky grins, and crawls back in bed and under the covers, holding still as Willy snuffles and curls around him. He could get used to winning gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there IS an epilogue, but it'll be short and hopefully I'll write and post it soon but also, you know me.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small epilogue, as promised!! And with that this story is finally done done DONE. Thank you all for coming on this ~journey~ and so much thanks to my betas
> 
> The interview mentioned at the end can be found at the bottom of this post: https://russianmachineneverbreaks.com/2017/05/22/nicklas-backstrom-wears-gold-helmet-during-world-championship-ceremony-in-sweden/ (thanks again RMNB)

Something is beeping. Nicky floats far enough out of sleep to hear it, but not to understand what’s making the noise. But then there’s also some sort of horrifying song, and Nicky’s head hurts so fucking much. The beeps are still going. 

“Oh my god,” a voice groans next to him, gravelly and agonized.

Willy. Aw, shit. Shit.

Nicky stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, trying to process everything that happened in the last day. His ass is sore and his mouth tastes like something died in it. But underneath all that he feels _good,_ loose in the best way, open and happy. He’s still tingling, a bit, the aftereffects of more than one really stellar orgasm coursing through him. Huh.  

“Can you please make your phone stop beeping,” says Willy’s voice, and oh, right. 

“We have thirty minutes before the plane leaves,” Nicky says after he turns off the two alarms and checks the time. Nicky has no idea when they finally fell asleep last night, but if they got more than a couple of hours of sleep, he’d be surprised. He finally looks over at Willy, who hasn’t opened his eyes. 

Willy looks rough - hair in his face, dried fluids of various sorts on his face, his eyes squeezed shut against the light. But he’s still gorgeous, too, and Nicky kind of likes that he looks so mussed up. Nicky did that. 

Willy groans, and finally opens his eyes, sits up, and drags a hand through his hair. Nicky steps over the side of the bed, puts his feet on a floor that isn’t wobbling as much as he feared.

“There’s come on my  _ face _ ,” Willy says. 

Nicky has a moment of panic - Does Willy regret it? Did they mess this all up? - but he cant help the grin that slips out on his face, and when Willy looks over at him, he’s also smiling.

“I have never needed a shower more than I need one right now,” Willy says, but he looks loose and happy, too.

“Twenty-nine minutes, now,” Nicky replies. 

“Aw, fuck - okay,” Willy says, and hoists himself out of bed.

After that it’s a bit of a scramble - they both shower, seperately, as quickly as possible, and NIcky gets his stuff in his bag and brushes his teeth and tries to hustle Willy along, who still needs to go back to his room to get his own luggage. Willy borrows his tooth brush, and stops at the room door before walking out.

“Ten minutes,” Nicky says, bouncing on his toes, trying not to nag as he watches Willy pause. 

Willy’s looking at him, his eyes big and open, a smile playing around his lips. “Hey,” he says, and walks the few steps back into the room until he is standing right before Nicky, close enough to touch. And then Willy leans forward, slightly, and Nicky’s foggy brain clicks in and meets him in the middle, a kiss that feels friendly and easy. A kiss that says, “Hey.”

When they part, Willy is grinning. “Wanted to wait until we’d both brushed our teeth,” he says. 

Nicky laughs despite himself. “Hurry! Go!”

Willy walks out the door, laughing himself. “See you on the plane!”   
  


Nicky mostly sleeps on the plane, or tries to. The party is still going, and the younger guys don’t seem to have their own headaches that feel like a puck to the temple. 

It’s hard to stay asleep once the fighter jets roar alongside their plane, and Nicky gives up. He takes two advil, and decides to pregame the medal ceremony. 

He’s mostly awake at the Royal Castle (the Royal Castle!) and he manages to look towards the cameras at relevant moments. And then they’re on the steps of the Segel Torg, Willy standing next to him, very shiny gold helmets on both their heads. The crowd is huge, loud, screaming at them, at him. Willy’s grinning, sneaking these big, open smiles in Nicky’s direction every time there’s a lull, like this is something just for Nicky, specifically. Or something they share. 

It’s amazing. Nicky tries to imprint every second of it into his brain, to remember this moment forever. 

There’s a bunch of cameras, microphones, people interviewing and filming them. Nicky does one with Willy - again, he’s not sure if it is intentionally a two person interview, or if they just keep standing next to each other. Willy is so shiny next to him, glowing. Willy tells the camera that that Nicky was a good babysitter, and that Willy beat him at ping pong (which is a lie). 

He does another  interview on his own, the questions coming from a studio miles away. The sun is in his eyes, glinting off a million gold helmets, as he tries to talk about the experience, the shootout, say good things about Henke. 

“What happens next?” the interviewer asks. 

“ Err.. I don’t know,” Nicky says. He’s not sure what the interviewer is asking about - Sweden, the Caps, the world at large. The interviewer is not asking about Willy, but he could be. “I’m not really up to speed of what’s going on…” 

Nicky looks out past the camera, just for a second, licks his lips as he tries to figure out how to say something vague but positive. Willy is in back of the camera, talking to someone, blond hair peeking out just a little under the helmet on his forehead, dimples visible. 

A smile sneaks into Nicky’s mouth. He can feel it creeping up the corner of his lips.  

He looks back at the interviewer. “We’ll see.”


End file.
